Conversations without words
by EpochWulf
Summary: I laughed at him. "Yeah, right. How are my characters supposed to communicate to each other without words?" Daisuke didn't respond, but a smirk formed on his face as he turned away. Daikeru.


Obligatory disclaimer – I don't own Digimon.

**Conversations without Words**

The silence hangs in the air like a spider on its thread. It's blatant and tedious, but I cannot break it. Not because I don't want to, but_ because I'm not allowed to._ I sit cross-legged, watch the television screen with detached interest. The writers on this show are terrible. The acting is bad, the one-liners are cringe-worthy.

Daisuke doesn't take part in the torture and I find myself wondering why I'm still watching it. He lies beside me in a reclined position, playing a hand-held electronic game. Some people just never grow out of certain things. But I can't be too hard on him; thinking back at a few childhood shows I conclude I'm guilty of this myself...

But this is all his fault, the silence. It's all part of his stupid bet. Yesterday I was trying to right a scene between two lovers who were undergoing a metamorphosis of the mind, an existential epiphany. But the words didn't flow. I couldn't (no matter how hard and for how long I tried) capture the grandeur of the moment. I couldn't even write convincing dialogue for the scene.

"So have them not talk," Daisuke said.

I laughed at him. "Yeah, right. How are my characters supposed to communicate to each other without words?" Daisuke didn't respond, but a smirk formed on his face as he turned away.

The bet came after that, the second time he disturbed, deep in thought. He cradled his chin with his right hand, watching and perhaps enjoying my struggle in an almost sadistic manner. Then he waved a fifty in my face and said the first one to talk tomorrow loses 50 bucks. Normally I would have rejected such a game. But my opponent is the ever-talkative Daisuke, trying to teach me a lesson on my subject, betting money. It's free money and an easy win. I couldn't say no.

I know what he's trying to do, or at least I think I do. He's trying to teach me a lesson, to use nonverbal communication if I cannot find the words. I find it funny, like a mouse trying to teach a cat how to hunt. Language Arts were my forte, whereas they were one of his weaker subjects. But I already considered using nonverbal language to describe the scene. It wasn't working – how do you describe something so profound – like enlightenment – using something as primitive as "touch?"

Daisuke derails my train of thought with his foot in my side. I look at him quizzically, he smiles mischievously. _What do you want now? _He gets up and rummages through the kitchen looking for lunch. Lupper? Is it already three? At least the day is going by fast. I am still surprised however, that Daisuke remains in the game. It appears I underestimated him.

Maybe I could make him talk somehow. Laughing is out of the question, we already established that at the onset of the game. If laughing were allowed, I would have just tickled him into submission hours ago. Its one of the things I know that most others don't about Daisuke. He's very ticklish, and I know all the sweet spots...

He returns to the couch with a platter of fruit in hand. The movie is still playing, but I decide I am not masochistic enough to endure any more of the atrocious program, so I offer Daisuke the remote. He shakes his head, so I turn it off. Now it's just the two of us, with no external distractions beside food. Cherries, strawberries, watermelon cubes (a mock imitation of their full form here in Japan), mandarin oranges. Was that whip cream?

He grabs a cherry with his chopsticks, then motions for me to indulge. I grab my own chopsticks, sleek metal dull needles, and take a watermelon cube. In a short while the chopsticks are down and everything but the strawberries is consumed. He dips one in whip cream, then reaches over and feeds it to me. I flash a toothy grin, grabbing the fruit between my incisors. I reciprocate the gesture, and both of us giggle like high school girls.

There is all but one strawberry remaining. I grab it and load its red flesh with a generous amount of whip cream. I slowly ease it in the burgundy-haired boy's direction, but I intentionally miss. A vertical strip of whip cream divides the right and left side of his chin. I grin evilly, then lean over and lap up the mess with my tongue. One thing leads to another and before I know it, I am kissing him.

We make eye contact a second before our lips meet. Then its dark and the only sense I can rely on is feeling. And it feels good, his hot breath (with a tinge of strawberry scent) cascades over my chin, down my throat each time we part for air. We engage in an oral fencing match, tongues looking to assert dominance over one another by probing for weaknesses and openings in defence. I find myself straddling him, I don't recall even moving into position; I'm just here. We part for oxygen and I survey our predicament. His torso wiggles erotically between my legs, the bridge of my knees and thighs pins him to the couch cushions. His eyes are a silky chocolate, smooth and captivating like the gravitational fields of brown dwarf stars. They stare into me, through me, study my chemical makeup at the subatomic level.

His shirt is an inconvenience I conclude, and remove it. As it glides up and over the contours of his body, my outer fingers make contact with his body. His flesh is toned, smooth and responsive to the touch. A gentle shiver ripples through his form as my finger makes contact with his nipple. His body is a furnace radiating heat, the deep blush associated with arousal is emblazoned across his face in an arc below his eyes. Moreover, I can feel his sexual energy culminating in physical form between his (and my) legs.

Perhaps the couch was ill-suited for this sort of thing. I suggest the bedroom as best I could with a gesture. He nods eagerly, but neither of us gets up. I don't want to break the trance, and neither does he. So we delay the migration for a few moments and return to each others mouths.

Finally we are in the bedroom. It's a simple square room with a queen bed roughly in the center, blue sheets and a black quilt. Four green pillows rest where the headboard would be, if we had one. He is the first to hit the bed, and with his feet he pushes back the unnecessary quilt. I land beside him and before I know it I am again straddling him. This time his hands are more devious, probing and prodding at my side. My shirt comes off and falls beside the bed.

My body is noticeably paler then Daisuke's and my build is less muscular. He doesn't mind at all, and our hands set off on an exploratory expedition. All of Daisuke's hours in the sun earned him a caramel tan. But it doesn't taste like caramel; more like salt my tongue informs me as I flick it across his skin. He moans as I imbed myself in the crook of his neck and string together tongue darts and kisses. I feel his hands snake down my body and to my pants. He grips my ass through the fabric of my pants. We are still wearing pants? In a moment mine are tossed to the floor, as are his.

Now it's just us and our underwear. He is wearing a black set of bikini briefs (briefs without a large waistband) and I am wearing a green set of boxer-briefs with a yellow smiley-face stitched into the left leg. I cast my eyes over his form again_. _His legs are well-formed from hours of soccer, and as I rake my hands over them I enjoy the feeling of his soft body hair against my skin. His erection still beckons me through the thin fabric of his underwear. His brilliant flesh and celestial stature makes him look like an amber caramel angel. _And he's all mine, the best part of it all._

In a swift motion I find myself lying on my back. Now Daisuke leads the erotic dance, pinning me to the bed. I squirm around, just to test out the parameters of Daisuke's organic constraints. He smirks, satisfied with his position. I curse those sexy soccer legs of his. He leans down and we kiss; I stop struggling and submit to his hungry lips. For now...

He starts deviating from my mouth and down my throat to my chest. My nipple becomes the next target; his experienced tongue makes me moan out. So much need, so much lust.

Sometimes I find myself contemplating the complexity of my attraction to Daisuke. Its obviously very sexual, no one has made me feel like this before. But it's not pure lust; it's far more complex than that. Sometimes I wish it were something so simple; a biological process that begins and ends cyclically. But it lingers much more than that. If it were just lust, I wouldn't experience a persistency – a lingering emptiness – in his absence. It is then that I realise how deep Daisuke's roots have imbedded into me. In my minds eye I am a child again, emotionally vulnerable – a dependant. I hate it; I hate the feeling of being dependant so thoroughly, so existentially on another.

The air is a cold reality raking over my naked form. And I _am _naked. Daisuke holds my green boxer-briefs in his hand; a smirk glazes over his features. Then the cold air is gone, replaced by the hot moisture of his breath. A shiver ripples down my spine; the seeds of lust flourish as my erection sprouts into full form. There is heat and there is... wet. Daisuke's tongue makes contact, sensitive nerve endings jump into lucidity. There is a need in my hands – my fingertips contract with fistfuls of fabric.

The fabric isn't intimate enough; I need Daisuke, reciprocated physical contact. I reach into the crux of his shoulder, drifting it over flesh until I find his thick burgundy hair. My left hand grabs his supporting hand. He pauses briefly, bringing his eyes up slowly until then make contact with mine. He still sports his grin and deep blush under the eyes. A thin trail of precum bridges the space between his tongue and my dick. There is pressure on me, pressure to say something. The silence is not fit for this situation, but at the same time the silence isn't awkward, just empty.

He giggles, then leans over and kisses me, a trail of stickiness marking the flesh where his belly contacts by erection. When he's shadowing my form I realise he is still in his underwear, dampened by his own precum. I snake my arms around his form and with a little coordination from us both, remove the article.

He gets up and digs through our end table's top drawer. He pulls out a little white tube with red letters written on it. Next thing I know I'm lying on my belly with his finger—cold and slippery—pressed against my asshole. I shiver and I hear him chuckle. He "scissors" his fingers, dilating my entrance muscles. I exhale slowly, submitting to his probing digits.

Wait a second, how am _I _on the receiving end of this? At some point Daisuke and I must have swapped roles, usually I am the one at the reigns. I'm in no mood to argue with him (not that I'm allowed to speak) so I let him have his fun. As long as he knows I'm the one letting him run the show...

There is a light smacking noise, the contact made when elastic or plastic makes contact with flesh. Daisuke is positioned behind me, with a condom over his erection. A slippery smear of lube lines his length. Again he prods me with his fingers, deeper then before. And then there are two, with a third following behind. I ease up, knowing from prior experience (on both ends) it makes sex easier and more pleasurable.

He mounts me from behind, like a dog. Given our positions, it's fitting. I embed my head into the pillow and shut my eyes, relying on my other senses. I become aware of his hands, a source of heat, radiating above my hips on both sides. I become acutely aware of another sensation. He eases the tip of his erection into my ass, a feeling much more blunt and present then his fingers. The lube now emits a pleasant warm, tingling sensation. He continues his decent into my body cavity – and I am overwhelmed by a feeling of inter-connectedness. His thighs press against my cheeks, and he pulls out. The sensation is just as overwhelming as the first thrust inwards, and I moan. He repeats the action, then again, each time picking up pace as I loosen up.

Perhaps I don't ever truly top Daisuke, perhaps I only top because he lets me. Perhaps I am never in control – like before I am a dependant, simple as that. Daisuke is the pulse of the ocean, I am but an individual caught in the wave, captivated by the aftershocks, completely and entirely at the mercy of the ocean.

I wonder if Daisuke understands how complex he really is. I wonder if he understands how he owns me – my body, mind and spirit.

And then everything becomes jumbled. Coherency is lost to me, and I submit to the sensations and the sensations alone. Daisuke is moaning now, I realise when I return to reality. And so am I, for that matter. A few minutes must have passed, and now a thin bridge of precum descends the length of my thigh. The need for physical contact returns, and still supported by my chest and left hand, I reach up with my right and grab his right supporting hand. A desperate call for further attention...

He toys with my hand a bit, and then he detaches it from my waist and grips my erection. Using his whole hand he strokes downward, paying particular attention to the sensitive tip. I let out a straggled moan and shadow his movements. We both pump my dick in tune to his thrusts – a pace which is constantly increasing, and with it inevitably, our moans.

There is tension in my core, a constricting feeling. A pressure builds, like a volcano acutely waking from its slumber. Daisuke can sense the precursor tremors, and accordingly speeds up his pumps. There are a few moments of peculiar nothingness, then a display of white. I cum into his (our) hand, sticky shots of white line our interlocking figures. Inside me, contractions are an organic vice around his dick. The sudden jump in friction sets him over the edge too, and we moan together in a constant, offbeat frequency.

We catch our breath. He is still inside of me, and realising this he eases out. I collapse into the sheets, breathing still laboured. He disposes of the condom and cleans his dick with conveniently located tissues, then joins me.

I notice that my hand is still sticky. I reach for the tissue box but Daisuke stops me. His right hand is messy like mine, and oddly he interlocks his fingers with mine. I don't question, rather I just observe him. His brings our interlocked fingers to his mouth. He cleans us off with his tongue, all the while giving me a look of innocence and amusement.

I want to stop playing our stupid game. I want to scream _I love you. _I want to exclaim to him how thoroughly he possesses me. But I don't. Not because I don't want to lose the bet, but because I don't know what to say. I don't know what would be adequate enough to describe it...

He is finished with my (our) hands now. We lay down on our sides, facing each other. All I can do to show him how much I love him is...

Our fingers are interlocked. I give him a squeeze, eyes embracing each other. He squeezes back, a mischievous smile on his face. A smile that says _I told you so_.


End file.
